


Gingerbread

by portraitofemmy



Series: the one with the dog [9]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Baking, Blow Jobs, Curtain Fic, Dogs, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Shower Sex, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:40:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21576166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: Eliot wakes up craving gingerbread.Cookies are baked, cuddles are had, and our heroes have a good day.
Relationships: Eliot Waugh & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: the one with the dog [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1404727
Comments: 39
Kudos: 259





	Gingerbread

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I love a good slice of life, alright? I've spent so much time with the characters in this particular universe that sometimes I can just imagine them going about their day, and this particular day felt particular warm and good and worth sharing. 
> 
> Thanks as ever to [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) for the support and beta work. <3

Eliot wakes up craving gingerbread. 

It must be something about the chill in the air, frigid and sharp when he wakes to the watery sunlight of 7am streaming into the bedroom. No one’s gotten around to adjusting the temperature controls on the apartment yet, so they’re still keeping it pretty cool at night. Which Eliot generally finds pretty comfortable, what with sharing a bed with a soft and cuddly space heater and occasionally a dog. Julia must be getting cold, though.

Everything outside the bed is chilly, but everything inside it is warm and comfortable and good. Quentin had moved sometime in the night, curled up in a little ball with just his ass and feet pressed back against Eliot. There’s a dog-shaped lump down by Eliot’s ankle, and neither of them seem to be awake, so Eliot doesn’t bother to try to be awake either. Just curls around the little Q-ball and sticks his nose in Quentin’s hair and breathes. Thinks about gingerbread, kind of absently, for a little while. God, Q is so warm and hug-shaped. Who’s fucking idea was that?

“Your nose is cold,” Quentin grumbles, less asleep than Eliot had been led to believe, wriggling a little to get away from the offending body part. All that manages to accomplish is tucking his ass back more securely against Eliot’s pelvis, though, which is– _mmmm_ , nice.

“Sorry, baby,” Eliot mumbles, still thinking about gingerbread a little, but a lot more about how nice it feels to slide his hand up under Quentin’s shirt and rub the soft, warm skin of his belly. Pressing a kiss to the exposed skin of Q’s neck, Eliot nuzzles in and breathes in the smell of him, sleep-warm and soft. They probably need to get up, probably shouldn’t lounge here like kings for the rest of the day, skin-drunk and lazy. Not that there _had_ been a lot of lounging when they were kings. “We don’t lounge enough.”

A snuffle-snort of laughter, and Quentin uncurls himself enough to look over his shoulder at Eliot with one bleary eye. “Sometimes I think that’s all we do,” he says dryly, voice rough with sleep, and god– just a little bit sexy. Jesus.

“Lies,” Eliot dismisses, leaning to press a quick kiss to the corner of Quentin’s mouth. Then, still kind of thinking about gingerbread: “Can we got to Starbucks this morning?

“Okay,” Quentin agrees, catching the word on a yawn.

There’s a low fizzling of heat under Eliot’s skin, the kind of feeling that could turn into arousal if he stoked it. But the puppy, in that way of small children and pets, comes awake to the sound of their voices, her silly little head popping up with interest. Eliot slides his hand off Quentin’s skin to hold out to her until she’s climbing up their bodies to sniff it, licking at his knuckles briefly then standing up and hopping off the bed, collar jingling as she scratches then stretches. 

“Probably should take her out,” Quentin mutters, and well, he’s right, but–

It doesn’t stop Eliot from giving him a proper kiss him when he rolls over, though, face tilting up towards Eliot in that way that says _kiss me, kiss me please_. His mouth opens up under Eliot’s mouth, hot and eager and inviting, just a little sour with sleep. God, _god_ , Eliot still sometimes can’t believe he _gets_ this, another whole lifetime of this, Quentin’s hands sliding across the bare skin on his shoulders and down his chest as they kiss in the lazy morning light.

“Let Julia do it,” Eliot murmurs belatedly against Q’s lips, noses rubbing together. Quentin giggles, and Eliot pulls back to watch him dimple, brushes his thumb against the happy creases next to his eyes. “Take a shower with me?”

The little shower cubicle in their en suite isn’t exactly big enough for two people to stand comfortably, but it’s not like personal space is what Eliot’s after here, anyway. They huddle together under the spray, avoiding the cold tiles as an excuse to stand wound together in the rising steam, Q’s nose tucked in against the divot of Eliot’s collarbone. Sleep-warm and clingy, Q keeps rubbing his face against Eliot’s skin, as though to feel the catch of stubble on chest hair.

It makes Eliot feel shivery and hot, that slow simmering of arousal mixing with a weird feeling of protectiveness he always gets holding Q like this. Standing in the spray, hair curling in wet ringlets around his face, Eliot surrenders to the impossibly significant feeling of puzzle-pieces slotting together, Quentin’s head on his chest, Quentin’s clasped hands resting on the curve of his ass. It’s so incredibly precious in that it’s totally and entirely normal. This is just _life_ now. 

Fingers tangling into Q’s wet hair, Eliot tugs until Q tips his face up and then gives easily when Eliot leans in for a kiss, pushing up onto his toes to meet him. A rush of wanting spreads through Eliot, a hundred different little waves of things he could do, share, be, take, _give_ to Q. Everything from washing his hair sweetly in the warm water to bending him over against the tile to fuck roughly until they’re both panting for it, ideas sparkling through Eliot’s brain. He can’t fucking land on one, too distracted sliding his tongue into Quentin’s mouth. Fuck, it feels _so_ good.

How lucky for him that he’s not alone in this decision making process.

Quentin, wet hair hanging in his face and a little smile on his lips, backs Eliot up against the cold tile and then slides down to the floor of the shower. And yeah, okay, yeah. Eliot’s sure as hell not gonna complain about that, _fuck_. Quentin’s so fucking _pretty_ , pretty all the time but extra pretty like this, all soft mouth pink from kissing and wide brown eyes, on his knees at Eliot’s feet. 

“I love you,” Eliot breathes out, because he’s so embarrassingly fucked up over this man, completely unable to get his dick sucked with even a small measure of composure.

Anyone else Eliot’s slept with in his life would absolutely tease him for that, including Margo. But that’s not Q, not even a little bit, who’s only ever met Eliot’s love with an open heart. No, Q just reaches out to take Eliot’s hand, press a warm kiss to the center of his palm, and then guides it to his hair. It’s all Eliot can do to hold on for the ride. 

It’s a startling mix of sensation, the cold tile against his back and the heat of Quentin’s mouth on his dick. Warm water splashing onto him and cool air, everything is contrasts, makes Eliot’s skin prickle, his nipples harden into to sharp points. 

“Fuck, Q,” he moans, fingertips rubbing against Q’s scalp and then winding into the wet stands to tug sharply. Just to hear Quentin moan, to feel it around his cock, vibrating into Eliot’s groin like a slow wave. He trails his free hand down his own throat to brush over his nipples, gasping at the weird shivery sensation of pleasure there, before reaching down to get both hands on Q. He’s happy to hold on and let Q set the pace for once, gives himself over to trust and Quentin’s knowledge of him. 

And _fuck_ , does Q know him. One hand holding the base of Eliot’s cock, the other gripping his hip, Quentin is sloppy and eager about it. God knows he gives enough head that he could probably manage some level of finesse about it if he tried but– Eliot loves it like this, really fucking does. Hot and wet, all suction and sloppy tongue, Eliot’s losing his _mind._

When he comes it’s bright and satisfying, a wash of pleasure that feel intimate for it’s ease– looking down at Q in the splash of the water and thinking _he’s my partner, and I get to keep this forever. It’s so good and I get to_ keep _it as long as I’m worthy of it._

He gives as good as he gets, once his legs stop feeling like jelly, switching their places so it’s Eliot who’s on his knees in the spray, Quentin backed up against the wall of the little shower. Of course, Eliot on his knees still comes up to about Q’s ribs, so there’ll be some contorting involved, but Eliot’s body seems mostly willing to cooperate today. He drops a series of kisses onto the irregular pattern of freckles across Quentin’s side anyway, to the soft skin on his ribs, feeling a desperate kind of tenderness that makes his heart ache. 

“We need to get you a box to stand on,” Eliot grumbles, just to hear Quentin’s inelegant snort of laughter echo around the bathroom.

“Yes, hello sir, I would like to purchase one blowjob box please,” Quentin parrots, and Eliot grins, kissing the warm skin of his hip, trailing down towards his cock standing proud and hard between his legs.

“I shudder to think what that would get you,” Eliot teases, then stops saying much of anything because he’s got better things to do with his mouth. 

Quentin comes fast, worked up as he ever is from the act of giving head, sweet and responsive to Eliot’s touch. He ends up tucked under Eliot’s chin again after, arms around his torso, perfect warm weight when Eliot wraps his own arms around Q’s shoulders. They laze in the stream for a few moments, enjoying the contact, naked skin pressed slick together. When Eliot finally goes to pull away, he presses a kiss to the tip of Q’s nose. Just because.

Quentin washes his hair and scrubs down quickly, then ducks out of the shower with a kiss, leaving Eliot to take his time with his own shower routine. Thank god the penthouse has truly spectacular hot water, he’s not in danger of it running out. Even if it does take him long enough to finish up that Quentin is fully dressed and smoking out on the balcony by the time Eliot gets out of the shower.

One of the benefits of being what one might generously call “self-employed” is that they can wander into Starbucks at 10am, well after the crowds of commuters have passed. The baristas at their local store know them, and know Dessy, and they can _just_ get away with bringing her into the store as long as she’s on her best behavior. It’s been a process of trial and error, with Q gamely leaving and going to wait outside with her every time she starts to fuss, but she’s learning. Today, she seems willing to stick by his heels and be cooed over by the flood of college-age girls who come over to pet her and talk to Q while Eliot orders for them both. 

There’s a free table by the door, close enough to make a quick escape if they get called out on the “having a dog in a public place” thing, and Eliot snags it while Quentin extricate himself from the three girls chatting with him. 

“I should have gotten a dog in undergrad, my life would have been _so_ different,” Quentin mutters, sliding into the seat across from Eliot and clicking his fingers at Dessy under the table. She doesn’t sit without further prompting, but she’s at least paying attention to him. Eliot snorts, settling his ankle against Quentin’s under the table to watch him patiently walk her through _heel, sit, lay down_. Once upon a time, the thought of Quentin wistfully imagining a version of his earlier life featuring more girls who wanted to sleep with him would have made Eliot incredibly jealous, but, well. His throat still feels a little raw from the slide of Quentin’s dick into it, and that is really hard to argue with.

Besides, it’s not like Eliot can _blame_ the girls, Quentin with the puppy gives off real _I’m nonthreatening in a nurturing way_ vibes. “You couldn’t have taken care of a dog in undergrad,” Eliot says, fondly, because he knows enough about 20 year old Q to know that.

“You’re not wrong,” Q sighs, popping the lid off his coffee to dump in his customary singular packet of sugar. “I don’t think even the veneer of wholesomeness would have disguised that hot mess, anyway.”

Eliot decides to take a sip of his gingerbread latte rather than reminding Quentin to be nicer to himself. Sometimes that was useful, if the self-depreciation was actually bitter or angry, but right now more likely than not it would just get Q annoyed with him. “So what’s on your plate today?” Eliot asks instead, tearing a croissant in half and handing part to Q.

“Alice and Kady need my help with something,” Quentin says, ripping off a piece of pastry and popping it into his mouth, then continuing to talk around in. “Remember that book that keeps like– shredding itself and scattering itself all over the Library?”

“Yes, I was absolutely paying attention when Alice told us about that,” Eliot says dryly, and the flat look Quentin gives him makes Eliot laugh. “Come on, I _try_ not to pay too much attention when she’s here. Space and trust and all that.”

“Okay, but if you’re actively eating lunch with us that doesn’t count,” Quentin points out, but his ankle rubs fondly against Eliot’s, the stiff top of his leather boot catching against Eliot’s trousers leg. The warm feeling from earlier, the _I can’t believe this is my life, that you’re my life_ feeling starts in Eliot’s chest again. 

He takes another gingery-coffee sip to give his dumb heart a second to calm down. “So she thinks you’ll be able to mend it?”

“I dunno, it’s worth a shot,” Quentin says with a half shrug. “Anyway, it should be a pretty short trip but you never know with the portals. Interplanetary travel isn’t exactly reliable on the time front.”

That was certainly true. Something about the portal spells, the circumstances of them, seemed to eschew sticking to the established rules of quantum mechanics. The clock tree in Fillory connected to their portal clock pretty reliably, but for no reason that anyone had been able to figure out yet. The idea snagged and caught in Eliot’s brain, something spinning around the idea of kinetic motion, the way movement in space affected magic.

Shaking his head a little, Eliot shelves the thought for later. “Right, well. If it looks like it’s going to keep you overnight, shoot me an email? ‘Team Newly Not Fascist Library’ got the emails working, right?”

“Yeah, of course,” Quentin agrees, giving Eliot a look that says Eliot’s probably being weird about something. He opens his mouth to apologies, but Quentin reaches out to touch his hand before he gets it out. Says softly, “I’m coming back, sweetheart.”

“I know,” Eliot replies, swallowing sharply. It’s not even– they _spend time apart_ , that’s not it, that would be so dumb. But the fucking _Library_ nearly got them all killed, and he just hates that the magic to get there is so unreliable, if there’s a _problem_ – but Alice and Kady have been running the place for almost a year, and Eliot trusts them with his life. Just... not quite with Quentin’s, maybe. Brushing his thumb against the back of Quentin’s hand, says “Bring some extra meds, just in case?”

“I will,” Quentin agrees, no argument, which means way more of this weird and unexpected emotional journey is happening across his face than he would like.

“Anyway. I’ll stop being all Christian Grey now,” Eliot say lightly, and Quentin rolls his eyes.

“Believe it or not, you’re not hurting me by loving me,” Q points out, popping another bite of croissant into his mouth, and yeah. Okay. Eliot’s not the only one who knows his partner really fucking well. 

He does ask, as Quentin leans over the couch to kiss him goodbye an hour later, “Can you bring back some portal theory books? Like, an intro and a ‘further studies’ kind of thing?” because the idea won’t leave him alone. Time doesn’t work the way it _should_ with kinetic magic, for interplanetary portals.

“Sure,” Quentin agrees, breath soft against Eliot’s lips. “Love you.” Then he’s gone.

So Eliot does some of the yoga that’s supposed to make your spine want to be a spine like, long term, with his mat spread out in the middle of the living room. It’s always a tricky thing to try with the excitable puppy running around you, but it’s actually kind of fun to bend over with Dessy in the little cave of space made by his body. She yaps and licks his face and it all devolves pretty quickly into doggy play-time from there.

There’s a collection of dog toys that mostly live in the box by her bed, and he gives up on yoga to toss around an increasingly soggy rope for a little while. Honestly, he doesn’t play with Dessy like this that much, usually when she’s feeling feisty she ends up tumbling around on the floor with Q. Which is good, it honestly is, Eliot knows how much it means to Quentin to be her favorite human. He’s happy to take second best, especially since the miracle of dogs is that never run out of love to give, it’s not like she’s ever not had enough to share between both of them. Still, it’s kind of nice to be her person for a little while, even if it is kind of a slimy process.

He ends up on his back on the floor with his shins up on the couch, stretching his lower back with Dessy flopped out and panting on his chest. She’s a warm little weight, and he rubs his fingertips through her fur, thinking about portals. And, admittedly, about gingerbread still.

Julia wanders downstairs around mid-afternoon, giving him a little wave as she goes to fill up her water bottle in the fridge. He hadn’t realized she was home, probably wouldn’t be laying on the floor in sweatpants if he had, but whatever. At this point, she’s seen worse.

“I think I’m going to run to the store,” he says casually, nudging Dessy off him so he can sit up. “Want to come?”

Julia agrees, on the grounds that she should probably leave the house at some point today, and they both spend way too long getting dressed for a grocery store run. Eliot appreciates that about having her in his life; just living with Quentin, one might get the impression that it’s acceptable to simply grab clothes off the floor and go about your day. 

They're low on flour in the pantry, since they've been going through more quickly now that Quentin’s baking bread with some regularity. So flour and butter and finishing sugar they get at the grocery store, but on Julia's suggestions they check out a little boutique market for molasses and ginger. The place is already decked out in pine garlands and Christmas lights, even though it's mid November, twinkling merrily as Eliot picks out candied ginger.

“Christmas starts earlier every year,” Julia grumbles somewhere nearby behind him, and Eliot smiles a little. In the way of mosaic memories, he suddenly remembers a 40-year-old Quentin, grumbling about festivals. It’s a precious memory, and he handles it delicately, turning it over in his mind and then putting it back where it came from. 

“I don’t really mind,” he admits, picking a baggie of candied ginger out of the line up, adding it to the little collection they’ve got going of dried ginger and molasses and, for some reason, a packet of dried squid. He hopes that’s for a spell. “Winter’s cold and dreary enough, nothing wrong with trying to make it sparkle a little.”

Julia gives him a wry look. “You’re so deep in your honeymoon phase, Eliot, I don’t think you could stop sparkling if you tried.”

He opens his mouth to protest, and gets an eyeroll before he even gets the words out. Who knows, maybe she is right, maybe the entire world is burnished by Quentin-tinted rose-colored glasses. But it doesn’t feel like that to Eliot, not the giddy bloom of something new but almost the opposite. A steady settling into something very, very familiar and incredibly welcome. It’s not even like everything’s smooth sailing all the time, the constant ebb and flow of mental illness and chronic pain keeping them all on their toes. But Julia, maybe, has more reason than most to be cynical in general. It’s kind of amazing she’s a functional human at all.

“We’ve been stuck in a bone-grinder of horrible for about 4 years,” he points out, moving over towards the wall full of wine to find something that would mull well. “I’m allowed a little sparkle.”

Julia does set up camp with him in the kitchen later though, as he gets some music going and starts the familiar motions of making his grandmother’s ginger cookies. Dicing candied ginger, sifting flour and warm spices and baking soda together, sliding eggs and butter and molasses into the bowl of the stand mixer, all of it is a familiar rhythm. It’s soothing as long as he doesn’t think too much about the circumstances surrounding the memory.

“I think the last time I made Christmas cookies was with James,” Julia says, thoughtful, her voice husky in that ten-year-smoker way she gets sometimes. 

“That’s Finance Bro, right?” Eliot clarifies, turning the mixer on to low so the wet ingredients can start to cream together.

“Does Q call him that?” Julia asks, a little incredulous, and Eliot bites down on a grin.

“If he did, I should definitely not repeat it because that would be a betrayal of trust. Or something.”

Julia flicks some stray flour at him, but it barely makes it across the counter. “He wasn’t that bad.”

“I didn’t say he was,” Eliot points out, bracing his hands on the counter while the mixer works. “Q liked him, from what I’ve heard. Just felt a little left out, but I mean. That happens. Margo literally wished my boyfriend away once because she was feeling left out. Though, he was, you know... Actual personified evil, so maybe she should get some credit for her instincts on that front.”

The look Julia gives him is sympathetic, maybe too much so. Eliot’s not quite as good at letting her be kind to him as he might be with Quentin or Margo. Not yet. So he turns to flip the oven on to preheat, pretending he can’t feel her watching him. Mike is another one of those things in the pile of memories Eliot tries not to think about, most of the time. Happily, most days, Eliot’s got better things to think about. A better boyfriend to occupy his mind.

“It’s always weird, breaking up with someone and knowing there’s a person out there walking around in the world who’s met your parents and knows your secrets,” Julia muses once Eliot’s back at the mixer, drawing her fingertip through the flour on the counter while Eliot starts spooning in dry ingredients. “It’s even weirder to think I know all that stuff about James, but he doesn’t remember me at all.”

Eliot’s spent most of his adult life making sure people _don’t_ know him that well, so he can’t exactly relate, but– he can imagine, maybe, how horrible it would feel to remember the mosaic if Quentin didn’t. To remember more of Margo than she did of him. “You could find him, try to lift the patch?” he offers quietly, and Julia shrugs, her contemplative air disappearing with a sad smile.

“I think in the long run he’s probably better off not remembering.” Eliot’s not entirely sure he agrees with that, from a moral standpoint on personal autonomy, but decides to keep it to himself. “I’m sure if I’d gone to Brakebills I would have ended up breaking up with him anyway. He was nice, and he was good to me, but, well.”

“Finance bro,” Eliot fills in, and Julia rolls her eyes, but nods in agreement. “Besides, the last thing you need is _another_ person in your intense little polycule.”

“Oh fuck off,” Julia snips, and Eliot grins, popping the bowl out of the stand mixer to start folding in the candied ginger. “You of all people don’t get to judge me for that.”

“No judgement,” he promises, and for just a heartbeat of a second he can _hear_ Arielle’s laughter, her voice clear and clean in his mind. Memory of her is so hazy, usually, and the clarity is welcome, the ache of her absence softened by so much distance. “Here, roll balls in sugar for me.”

“Rolling balls is your job,” Julia bites back, with absolutely no heat at all, but hops off her stool to circle around the counter anyway. Not for the first time Eliot thinks _family_ , thinks _sister_ , as she elbows him in the side but does as he says. 

The cookies are out of the oven and cooling on a rack on the counter, mulled wine simmering away on the stove top by the time there’s a sparkle of magical energy and Quentin steps through the front door. Eliot can just see the grey of the Library behind him through the departing gate of the portal from where he’s draped across the living room chair, mindlessly scrolling through instagram. 

“It smells fucking amazing in here,” Quentin says by way of greeting, and the little bit of tension Eliot’s been carrying between his shoulder blades all day unwinds. Quentin’s hair is falling into his face, and in his soft grey sweater and maroon t-shirt he is exactly what was missing from the apartment all day. The final piece that ties the whole room together. “How long was I gone?”

“About eight hours, give or take,” Eliot replies, watching fondly as Quentin bends down to say hi to Dessy, scratching her soft ears while she licks his face. “How long was it for you?”

“Five-ish?” Quentin says, nose scrunching up, though if that’s due to thoughtfulness or puppy-slime, Eliot couldn’t guess. “Not too bad, then. I got your books. Please tell me I can eat one of those cookies, I’m fucking starving.”

“Be my guest,” Eliot sighs, stretching and then half-rolling out of the chair, wandering over to stand behind Q at the counter. He’s got to step over the dog in the process, who’s velcroed herself to Q’s side now, like he might up and vanish again if she’s not constantly touching him. Eliot can kind of relate, he thinks, sliding his arms around Q’s little waist, face tucked into his hair. Quentin sinks back against his chest easily, as Eliot hugs him from behind, dropping his cheek down onto Q’s head.

“These are really good,” Quentin mumbles around his mouthful, and Eliot grins into his hair, breathing in the warm smell of gingerbread and mulled wine. He reaches around to break off a chunk of Quentin’s cookie and pop it into his own mouth, enjoying the warm spice taste and the sharpness of the chewy ginger chunks. Quentin grumbles, “Hey, get your own,” but makes absolutely no effort to extricate himself from the hug. 

“Did you fix the book?” Eliot asks, once they’ve wound up back on the couch, a couple of cookies on a plate on the table in front of them along with mugs of mulled wine. Quentin’s digging Eliot’s loaned portal theory books out of his messenger bag, and Eliot takes them gamely, sets them on a side table. He’ll check them out tomorrow or the next day, chase that itch of curiosity. Now, all he wants to do is nudge Q back to stretch out on the couch and climbing half on top of him, head on his chest.

“Yeah, it seems fixed? I think so.” Quentin’s making a thoughtful face, like there’s a story here. 

Eliot crosses his hands on Q’s chest, chin propped up on them, meeting his eyes with a little smile. Quentin reaches up to curl a ring of Eliot’s hair around his fingers, looking at Eliot like he’s still not used to seeing him, somehow. Like Eliot’s not the only one who can’t quite believe this is his life. 

“So what was wrong with it?” Eliot prompts, and settles in as Quentin starts to talk. The sound of his voice blankets over Eliot like physical warmth, like the taste of baking spices, the smell of coming home. 

Comfortable, Eliot listens. 

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


End file.
